Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Land of the forest and the rock,
Of dark blue lake and mighty river,
Of mountains reared aloft to mock
The storm's career, the lightning's shock—
My own green land forever!—
Whittier.

I.

Connecticut, I stand upon thy shore,
And see with joy thy sparkling waters glide;
The morning breeze plays soft thy bosom o'er,
And lends new lustre to thy silver tide,
And nods the elm upon thy greenwood side.
Fondly my eyes behold thee yet again,
And thy rich vale, here intervening wide;
There lofty hills define the narrow plain—
The whole like carpet deck'd with variegated grain.

II.

I 've stood upon thy shore, famed Ohio,
And traced thy mazy channel to its end;
I 've seen Missouri's turbid current flow,
And with Missepa's mighty torrent blend,
In one grand volume to the sea descend;
I 've found midst Nature's savage solitude
The purling stream whose welling waters wend
Thro' prairies fair, by Flora gaily strewed,
And fainting knelt to drink, and felt my strength renewed.

III.

But none of these, Connecticut, can vie
With thy rich scenery of shore and isle;
None save thy beauties captivate my eye—
On none has Nature looked so sweet a smile,

Pure of itself, that savors nothing vile!
On thee my wandering thoughts I oft bestow,
In distant lands, with Mem'ry's magic wile,
I 've seen as oft thy healthful waters flow
O'er pebbles white and cold that shine like gems below.

IV.

That well-known islet, still as ever fair!
Buried beneath her big elms' sombre shade;
But soft! enchantment's magic hand is there—
Not fairy's web, nor yet of watery Naiad;
By outlaw dark that subtle spell is laid.
The story is by every gossip told,
How Kidd, the pirate, there deposite made
Of his ill-gotten wealth, and buried gold
In heavy yellow bars and “dollars many fold.”

V.

And the lone voyager, as he passes by,
Rests for the while upon his weary oar,
And turns his eye on thee distrustfully,
And the dark winding of thy shadowy shore,
For oft he 's heard thy fearful tale before.
The guardian genius of thy fabled soil
On thy behalf I earnestly implore,
Let not intrusive art thy weald despoil,
Nor Commerce fill thy ears with all her loud turmoil.

VI.

Yon mountain old! I know your outline well;
My infant eyes have oft been raised to thee;
Before my feet could walk or tongue could tell
Thy fixed and lofty frown regarded me.
I hail thee now, with every rock and tree!
Between it and the world's engrossing crowd
To this dear vale a barrier thou shalt be,

To keep aloof the rabble, mixed and loud,
Eager for glittering pelf, the humble and the proud.

VII.

And hither comes the tributary brook,
Stealing around the intervening hill;
Man has revealed thy solitary nook,
And drowned thy murmur in the clattering mill.
Much of thy beauty thou retainest still,
Tho' sad the work that careless Time has done.
But I will rest my praise of thee until
Thou hast a name to hinge thy fame upon—
So now I christen thee, Wa-pe-sa-pe-na-con.

VIII.

Thou art to me like old familiar friend—
Than otherwise thou never well couldst be;
I know thy “farthest spring” and this thy end,
And so have known since early infancy.
Dost know me not?—your murmur welcomes me!
My father's house o'erlooks thy winding way,
My happiest hours were in thy company,
When but a child I sought thy banks to play,
And came with dripping frock and conscious guilt's delay.

IX.

How well I knew the angler's part to act!
Despite the storm that gathered o'er my head
With hook and line, and fisher's secret tact,
I walked thy hollow banks with cautious tread,
With treacherous bait thy finny people fed.
Then one by one I pulled them from the burn,
Their wet sides stained with silver spots and red,
Till closing day admonished my return.—
Ye fops, a moral good from simple fishes learn!

X.

This hill invites me to its woody brow;
Gladly I'll mount to it with willing feet.
How well repaid the little labor now!
Can penciled art afford so rich a treat?
'T is Natures's work, revisioned and complete.
One hour spent here repays a year of pain!
Below me, wrapt in calm seclusion sweet,
Scenes of my childhood, ye appear again!
And here I count each link in memory's golden chain.

XI.

There is a tear that gratitude distils
When on a long-lost dear we rest our eyes.
There, in the lap of circumjacent hills,
My much-loved, modest, native village lies!
Who boast of wisdom are the lesser wise;
Who boast of worth have nothing but the name;
The liar aye assumes a holy guise,
So doth the fawning hypocrite the same,
And oft his hellish arts will put the good to shame.

XII.

Sweet village, I accuse not thee of aught
Of vain pretension to unreal worth;
Not my good will could ever thus be bought—
Thou art to me the dearest spot on earth;
And, Heaven, I bless the soil that gave me birth!
Preserve thou it from every harmful guile,
From mischief-making Envy's cankering dearth
And on its' thankful sons bestow the while
Gifts which are thine to give—thy sempiternal smile!

XIII.

First the tall spire above the “house of prayer,”
Where many a Sabbath's holy hours I've spent

Free of the world and every worldly care,
And heard the voice of supplication sent
To Heaven's high Throne whose “hearing ear” was lent.
And then to list the anthem's solemn roll!—
The deep-toned bass with loftier numbers blent,
Like healing oil upon the wounded soul,
Lifting its troubled thought above poor earth's control.

XIV.

Those sacred airs are ever in my ear:
Old Hundred rolls in ancient majesty;
Or Mear's sweet tenor rises soft and clear;
Anon ascends slow-measuring Dundee
In all the pathos of its melody;
Who hears Ballerma shall not hear in vain;
And midst them all it hath delighted me
To hear sad China plaintively complain,
Or noble Patmos chaunt the solemn-sounding strain.

XV.

Yonder, upon the verge of rising ground,
In silence weeps the lonely burial-place.
There left to rest on death's cold couch profound,
Lie many tokens of a mortal race;
And veiled from me is many a well-known face.
Among those graves, at Sabbath's setting sun,
I 've musing strayed, the chisseled line to trace
Upon the front of friendship's tablet stone,
Which bade me pause and think how soon life's sands may run.

XVI.

That lowly house that skirts the village green—
No more towards it my schoolboy feet are turn'd

—No more within its brick-built walls are seen
The noisy class where competition earned
The dear-prized medal from the tutor learn'd.
Happy that youth to whom instruction shown,
Imperfect tho' it be, is never spurned!
Happy is he when lapsing years are flown,
Calls fame's bright coronet, so dearly won, his own!

XVII.

Within that ancient grove how oft I 've strayed
To pass the hour of Summer's torrid noon;
And musing seated 'neath the sheltering shade
I loved to chaunt the strains of Bonny Doon,
Or other airs, the poet's precious boon;
To mind the restless bird that flitted by,
Or the wild flower that bloomed to wither soon,
Or the swift brook that raised its murmur nigh,
Or in the distance heard the cock's shrill noonday cry.

XVIII.

Beside the church a well-known home appears,
Whose door-way opes within the leafy vine;
Beneath that roof were passed my early years,
While boyhood's hours of careless joy were mine.
Alas, how soon those blushing buds decline!
Some few may bloom, yet 't is but for a day—
And, childhood, oft such early fate is thine;
Others show long the blossom bright and gay.
Comes not the frost at last that withers it away?

XIX.

Can I forget the sorrow that I felt
When for the world I left that threshold dear?
How, often turned, my tearful vision dwelt
On each sweet scene, while yet I linger'd near?

How my heart bled, that never sank in fear?
Can I forget that trying hour?—ah, no!
Tho' years have flown the scenes as fresh appear
As if they were but yesterday ago;
Nor can they ever change but in the dust below!

XX.

Oh, faithful Memory! how dear thou art
To him whose conscience whispers nothing ill!
Who feels no secret gnawing at his heart,
And bides the sequence of his wayward will!
With dregs like these my cup shall never fill!
Give me the calm that conscious virtue hath,
The cloak of peace for storms of terror chill;
Be mine the pardoning smile for frown of wrath,
Then light my step shall be along life's thorny path.

XXI.

Blest vision of my early home! It seems
Like dwelling place beyond the azure skies
To the good man who wanders in his dreams
Beyond the point where Time's dark bound'ry lies.
Long on it yet may dwell my wishful eyes!
There may I rest me from my toilsome way.
When pilgrims cease to roam delusion flies,
But Hope's bright star shall cheer them with its ray,
Till light succeeds to light in never-ending day.

Missepa—the true Indian word, corrupted into Mississippi.

The Indian name of a Wisconsin stream. The first syllable to be pronounced broad like the first syllable of wa-ter.